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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24253303">in for a penny</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortydazzler/pseuds/mortydazzler'>mortydazzler</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Rick and Morty</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Incest, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Psychological Trauma, more tags to come</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:42:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24253303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortydazzler/pseuds/mortydazzler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Morty struggles to accept the realities of a life spent with Rick Sanchez. Rick tries to help, in his own fucked-up ways.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. in for a penny</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> “… because the world is full of idiots who don’t know what’s important! And they’ll tear us apart, Morty. But if you stick with me, I’m gonna accomplish great things, Morty. And you’re gonna be part of ‘em!” </em>
</p><p>.</p><p>.</p><p>Morty lies on the unforgiving concrete of the garage floor, trying and failing to calm his convulsing limbs. Even with his blurry vision, it's hard to miss his grandfather looming over him, gesturing wildly, words and spittle flying from his mouth in equal measure. Bits and pieces float down to Morty, but he doesn't understand much of it. His brain feels like a pot boiling over, and his body feels like the noodles, even though that really doesn't make sense as a metaphor. Or is it a simile? </p><p>Morty supposes he can't expect to be good at English now, since he struggles with it under normal conditions, when he <em> isn’t </em> in agonizing pain. And he expects to keep struggling, because the essay he has due Monday on <em> Call of the Wild </em>won't be getting written if his brain is gonna be shut off for the entire weekend.</p><p>It sucks, because this time Morty actually went through the trouble to read the book. Granted, it was a children’s version of the story, with bigger text, grainy black-and-white pictures, and probably some of the more graphic scenes edited out-- but he’d read it, and even liked it. The main character, a dog named Buck, was kidnapped from his comfy California home, removed from everything he’d ever known, and forced to work as a sled dog in the Yukon. </p><p>Morty rooted for Buck as he suffered all sorts of trials and fought to adapt to his surroundings; he cheered when the dog was adopted by an outdoorsman who nursed him back to health; but the ending still has him conflicted. By the end of the novel, Buck was completely changed. He chose never to return to his former life and family. It was bittersweet, Morty thinks. It might’ve made an okay book report.</p><p>Unfortunately for his grades, Rick has more important things for him to do.</p><p>Speaking of Rick, Morty notices that the rant has stopped. That means danger, sometimes, and a wave of fear envelops him. Willing his eyes to focus, Morty spots him hunched over the workbench, absorbed in mixing chemicals. The beaker Rick holds is foaming, glittery purple bubbles reflecting the light, and Morty would be captivated if he wasn’t fighting the sensation of someone tearing out his spine one vertebra at a time.</p><p>“Rick,” he says weakly. It's about all he has the strength for, and Rick turns. His gaze isn't as intense, now, but Morty thinks he sees something flickering beneath the surface, a match quickly stubbed out before the flame can burn for real. His hands are solid as he picks Morty up, cradling him. Morty's head settles against Rick's chest like it belongs there. He grabs a handful of lab coat and lets out a pained whine, closes his eyes. </p><p>"Calm your tits, Morty, it's not that bad," Rick says. He sounds amused. </p><p>Morty hears the telltale sound of a portal opening and finds himself sinking into his mattress. To his surprise, a cool hand sweeps across his forehead, brushing away the sweaty stray curls gathered there. Then there's the pinch of a needle in his arm, and Rick’s voice rasping something unintelligible in his ear, fading away as sleep comes for him. </p><p>Morty does not dream. </p><p> </p><p>* * * </p><p> </p><p>When he wakes up on Sunday evening, he goes over what he knows:</p><p>His parents think school is important. </p><p>His parents barely remember to acknowledge his existence. They couldn't even get him diagnosed for the learning disability he apparently has and still bug him about his grades-- how hypocritical can you get? </p><p>Rick thinks school is a waste of time. </p><p>Rick actually wants to spend more than ten minutes per day with him. </p><p>Rick lets him break his legs. Rick tells him that his one brain cell bounces around his head like the logo on a DVD player’s idle screen and that, not sleep deprivation, is why he gets headaches sometimes.</p><p>Rick looks at him, sharp and searching, and it makes him feel dizzy in a way that he can’t put into words.</p><p>After being nobody for most of his life, the pressure of being half of Rick and Morty threatens to crush him. But Morty is determined to withstand it, if only for a while, if only to adventure among the stars with his grandpa just a little bit longer. </p><p>So he learns to read Rick’s moods in the line of his shoulders and the furrow of his brow, how to phrase questions so he gets mostly real answers, how to find the right tool in Rick’s organized chaos when <em> the thing’s gonna blow if I don’t fix it in the next sixty seconds Morty, you wanna star in Michael Bay’s wet dreams or what, I’ve heard some pretty bad allegations about that guy so HAND ME THE DAMN ALLEN WRENCH MORTY. </em> </p><p>Slowly but surely, Morty adapts. Bends to fit Rick's expectations and hopes he won't break. </p><p>Hope is stupid, Rick tells him. Hope ain't gonna save your ass, you gotta do that yourself. Better to calculate and make a plan. </p><p>Rick is always right. </p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>It's the third night after his chosen adventure, after his encounter at the Thirsty Step, and Morty is wide awake. </p><p>He's tried not to think about it, but it haunts him every time he closes his eyes. </p><p>Morty stands in front of Rick's door, fingers brushing the handle, consumed by doubt. If Rick makes fun of him for this, he might just curl up and die on the spot. Five minutes go by, then ten. Finally, he hears a frustrated noise from the other side and footsteps shuffling around. </p><p>"Fuck's sake, Morty, shit or get off the pot already," says Rick as he opens the door. Morty yanks his hand away, hugging his arms around himself instead. Rick goes to say something else, but the words die in his throat when he sees Morty, who's now intently studying the hall carpet. </p><p>"Can - can I come in?" he asks timidly. Rick gazes down at him, impassive. </p><p>"Sure, kid," he finally replies, stepping away, sitting on his bed. With the light from the hall, Morty can see how tired Rick looks, the exhausted curve of his spine as he stares at a spot on the floor. Before Morty can talk himself out of it, he closes the door behind him and sits next to his grandfather in the dark. </p><p>Yeah, this is all he needed, to sit with someone else who understood. Rick knows that something happened, Morty is sure of it. The way he acted after Morty came out of the restroom and asked to leave… he was a little too obliging, too cheery. Too willing to give Morty a happy ending, despite all his misgivings about the adventure up to that point. </p><p>And similarly, Rick's arm settling around his shoulders, pulling him closer, seems a little too good to be true. Morty isn't used to getting something for nothing, and the gesture startles him even as he leans into it. He doesn't realize he's crying until Rick's shirt dampens under his cheek, and he doesn’t realize he can’t stop until it gets hard to breathe and he starts panicking and Rick is talking, and Morty has to listen to Rick--</p><p>“--orty! Morty,” Rick is shaking him a little, looking alarmed. “It’s - it’s okay, Morty, I got you, just, c'mere. Just chill with grandpa for a sec."</p><p>It takes a minute, but Morty manages to get his breathing back under control. The tears take longer to stop. He hiccups, his diaphragm spasming so hard it hurts. There’s a soft object being shoved into his hand, and upon further inspection, it’s a microfiber towel. It’s like the ones Rick uses in his workshop; when Morty dries his face with it, the faint scent of motor oil is a comfort to him. Reminds him of spending long afternoons in the garage, listening to the clinking of tools while Rick works. He yawns, impossibly tired all of a sudden. He won't be able to fight off sleep for much longer, even if his life depends on it. </p><p>For the moment, it doesn’t seem to.</p><p>“You good?” He feels Rick’s question more than he hears it.</p><p>“Yeah, just gonna… wanna lie down,” Morty replies, crawling over the tiny mattress to press himself against the wall. The plaster is cool where it touches his skin, and above him, Rick’s various papers are tacked up: the closest he’s ever been to seeing inside the man’s head. Morty finds the original blueprints for the ship there, traces the lines of the garbage can thrusters. He's spent more time in that ship than he has in class in the past six months, his brain reminds him. </p><p>Rick's presence at his back is almost a surprise. He leaves as much space between them as he can without falling off the cot, shifting to lie down and get comfortable. </p><p>"Go to sleep, Morty," he murmurs. His breath hits the back of Morty's neck and he shivers, even though it's warm in Rick's closet of a room. "I got you," Rick says again, before his breathing evens out and he's sleeping. </p><p>"Okay," Morty whispers, and closes his eyes. </p><p>Morty dreams, but when he wakes, he doesn’t remember it. </p><p> </p><p>* * *</p><p> </p><p>Man, Rick thinks, shit is just too easy sometimes. Winning Morty over is like taking candy from a baby, if the baby was blind, paralyzed, and asleep. </p><p>Tell him "good job" and he looks incredulous. Take him out for ice cream and he acts like Christmas came early. The bar is so low that it’s underground, would probably be in hell if Rick believed in such places, and it’s a good thing he doesn’t-- because as he spends more time taking Morty out on adventures, he’s forming more of an attachment than he thinks is wise. Yeah, Rick gets it now. Gets why this particular song and dance plays out infinitely across the multiverse, aside from the brainwaves factor.</p><p>The kid’s not half bad. Sure, he’s annoying as shit, and his morals kick in at the most irritating times, but Morty is entertaining and better yet, he’s occasionally useful for reasons unrelated to his neurology. Rick is the last person any boy should look to as a role model, but with Beth’s minimalist parenting and Jerry being… Jerry, what other choice does Morty have? So when Morty starts picking up on the extraplanetary terminology that Rick uses, and his time running a mile improves significantly, along with his aim, Rick shrugs and figures he’s just giving Morty a better education than any teacher at that godforsaken school ever could.</p><p>Unfortunately, that education has consequences that he doesn’t fully foresee.</p><p>In the back of his mind, Rick had always known he’d probably have to take Morty and switch dimensions someday. He hadn’t guessed it’d have anything to do with Morty’s insatiable desire to get into his classmate’s pants, but it’s not that shocking, thinking back on it.</p><p>They’re on the couch, watching some inane cooking show from a dimension where the potato is a rare and expensive delicacy. A contestant presents a dish of five french fries with a smear of ketchup on the plate, and the judges go wild. Rick sips his beer, turning the day’s events over in his mind, wondering what projects this dimension’s Rick was working on before he became a bloody pulp. He doesn’t miss the hollow expression on Morty’s face as he gets up to go and see. When Rick returns a few hours later, the living room is empty.</p><p>He finds Morty in his room, hunched over his desk. Everything’s been pulled out of the drawers and spread across the desktop, a jumble of pencils and old schoolwork that Morty is inspecting closely.</p><p>“The hell are you doing?” Rick asks, arching his brow. Morty doesn’t look at him.</p><p>“Going through my stuff,” he says, idly twirling a pencil in his hand. “Well, it - it’s not <em> mine</em>, exactly - I mean, I guess it is now.”</p><p>“And what’s the point of that?” Rick walks over to look over Morty’s shoulder. There’s a book report lying there, marked with a higher grade than Morty normally gets-- a B-plus, with a sticker of a dog on it. <em> Great analysis, Morty, </em> is written in blue pen at the top, <em> keep it up. </em> </p><p>“Well, my schedule changed, w-would you believe that?” says Morty, tapping his finger on a paper with a list of his classes on it. “I have history eighth period now. And this Morty got put in French instead of Spanish, so, guess I’ll--” his face contorts, like he’s not sure how to arrange it, “guess I’ll have to start studying,” he manages, breaking out into hysterical-sounding giggles. </p><p><em> Fucking hell, </em> Rick thinks. <em> Time for a reality check. </em></p><p>“Morty, look at me,” he demands. When he looks at his grandson’s upturned face, he almost loses his nerve, but no. This isn’t a problem that can be solved with hugs and fucking naptime.</p><p>“Listen. You already know our world was completely and totally fucked. No question about that, I put that place on the express train to Cronenberg hell, we’ve been over it. But you can’t go around thinking that - acting like you went and killed that other Morty just because you buried his body, alright? Our alternate selves would’ve been exactly the way they were whether we came here or not. Your mom would’ve walked into that bloodbath to call us for dinner and lost her fucking mind.”</p><p>Morty looks faintly nauseated, like he hadn’t thought about that before.</p><p>“Yeah, now you’re starting to get it. We’re not special, Morty! The multiverse is infinite, and sure-- maybe this Morty paid off some nerd to write his book report, but--”</p><p>“He wrote it,” Morty interrupts. “I would’ve written it too, if we hadn’t, hadn’t gone for those megaseeds. It was a good book, Rick.”</p><p>“Who gives a shit if the book was good?!” Rick pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I - I’m trying to resolve your existential crisis, here--”</p><p>“I care, Rick! Me!”</p><p>“That’s beside the point, Morty--”</p><p>“No, Rick, it <em> isn’t </em>beside the point! I’m not like you! I-I-I can’t just, just drink vodka and get over it like you can. M-maybe…” Morty drops his gaze back down to his desk, taking a deep breath. “Maybe you’ve done this enough that it’s not upsetting to you, y’know? Or you’re better at not thinking about it than I am. I won’t complain about being given another chance. But you can’t expect me to step into someone else’s life and not feel anything about it, okay?”</p><p>Rick sneers at him and takes a spiteful pull from his flask. “Whatever, Morty. I’ll be in the garage. Come get me when you’ve pulled your panties out of your ass.”</p><p>He turns away, has his hand on the doorknob when Morty says, “Wait!”</p><p>He waits, not giving a reply.</p><p>“W-what’s this dimension’s number?”</p><p>Rick hesitates, but figures it won’t hurt anything for Morty to know. “C-119.”</p><p>And having decided that this conversation will be his last coherent memory for the foreseeable future, Rick heads off to get absolutely plastered. The rest of the night passes in flashes, like changing channels:</p><p>Shattering glass on the wall, bottles gone supernova--</p><p>Stumbling up the stairs--</p><p>Almost tripping over a potted fern that didn’t exist in his last dimension--</p><p>Slamming Morty’s door open, lurching towards the bed--</p><p>Words tumbling out of his mouth, laced with guilt he can’t express--</p><p>Faceful of sheets, warm body under him, grabbing, grabbing--</p><p>Rick and Morty, a hundred years, no, a thousand--</p><p>Rick and Morty-- Morty--<em> Morty. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. in for a pound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Time goes by. Morty settles in, sanding down the edges of his former life that don’t fit in this reality. It’s not as difficult as he thought it’d be. It doesn’t dominate his every thought anymore, the feeling that he’s an imposter, a usurper, a parasite gorging itself on experiences that aren’t his. He makes peace with it. He goes to school sometimes, adventures with Rick other times, and almost feels normal. </p>
<p>Then a portal opens while the family’s at breakfast, and Morty is staring in wonder at the three Ricks that step out of it. They freeze his dad; Morty’s stomach clenches in fear, Frank Palicky’s fate playing out in his head. So vivid is that memory that he completely misses whatever else is said until he notices a cuff locking around his wrist. Rick agrees to go with the others, and being pushed around is nothing new to Morty, so he doesn’t try to resist. His arm begins sweating almost immediately where the Guard Rick grips it.</p>
<p>“Will you at least unfreeze my daughter’s idiot,” says Rick as they drag him through, and even though Morty tries to look back, he’s pulled through the portal headfirst before he can make sure his dad is okay.</p>
<p>Morty realizes quickly that Rick-- his? His Rick?-- has a reputation on the Citadel. Even the other Ricks know of him, of what he’s done, beyond what sharing identities should entail. More Rick than any other, he claims, and as the day wears on, Morty’s inclined to agree that he’s definitely the biggest asshole out of all of them. </p>
<p>Of course Rick would say he needs him, forever and ever, a hundred years. He's a walking signal jammer, a stay-out-of-jail card, one of god knows how many selves whose life revolves around being a human shield. A lot of people struggle with finding their purpose, Morty knows. Who’d have thought that his would be laid out for him before he took the SAT?</p>
<p>Morty trails his alternates into the secret base’s control room, watches the other Mortys bring the evil Rick down in a writhing, angry mass of limbs. His own Rick lies next to him on a metal slab; strapped down, unable to move, this is as close to helpless as Morty may ever see him. He commits the scene to memory as best he can. </p>
<p>"You're lucky I'm not a Rick," he grumbles, undoing the restraints. </p>
<p>Rick doesn't need luck. He's the smartest man in the multiverse, and he's smart enough to know that Morty isn't capable of leaving him behind. Not today, anyway. </p>
<p>And he'll buy himself some more time on that clock when at last, indirectly, begrudgingly, he gives Morty a compliment. </p>
<p>
  <em> The Mortiest Morty…  </em>
</p>
<p>Morty flushes at the thought and feels warm all the way home. Maybe there's something remarkable about him after all. Something that only Rick can see. </p>
<p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hi, 119,” Morty whispers. “I think I have a problem.”</p>
<p>He shivers in the chilly October air, plucking a handful of yellowing grass. Sitting cross-legged in front of the two graves in his backyard, Morty feels less tangible, a boy immaterial. Coming out here makes it worse, obviously, but who else can he tell these things?</p>
<p>“It’s Rick,” he says, chuckling, “but then, it’s - it’s always Rick, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>He picks apart a blade of grass, peeling it into crackly little strips. </p>
<p>“I-I’ve been, lately I can’t stop thinking about him. He makes me feel so useless, but at the same time, he treats me like we're the only ones in - in the whole universe that matter. Sometimes I look at him, like, driving the ship or whatever, and I - I want…”</p>
<p>There’s dirt under Morty’s fingernails where he’s digging them into the ground beside him. </p>
<p>“I want him to touch me,” Morty admits. “Or vice versa, y’know, I’m not picky. A-and, I’m not sure about this, but sometimes, when he’s super drunk, he gets really close, and…” Memories run through his mind, Rick throwing himself onto Morty’s bed, mumbling incoherent sentences into his pillow. Rick’s eyes boring into his, trying to convey a wordless message that Morty can’t quite pick up on. Hot breath on his face and the scent of alcohol. “It always feels like he’s gonna kiss me. And I want him to.” </p>
<p>He lets out a shaky laugh. “It’s fucked up, huh? My whole life is fucked up.”</p>
<p>Morty brings a hand to his face, wipes away the threat of tears. “I don’t even think it’s the grandpa thing, not totally, right? The multiverse is, it’s a weird place, and some dimensions accept that. But he puts me in so much danger-- I’ve almost d-died because of him more times than I can remember… almost being the keyword, I guess.” </p>
<p>Rick has put Morty in countless deadly situations, but he’s also saved him, despite the Morty Coupon he knows Rick still has. He’s never figured out whether it’s because Rick secretly values Morty as an individual, or if he’s avoiding the legwork of acquiring another one. It would involve a trip to the Citadel, after all. </p>
<p>He looks around, studying the area around the graves. The yard is beginning to acquire a blanket of fallen leaves, but after those are gone, Morty knows it’ll look barren. It's a disheartening thought. </p>
<p>“Maybe sometime soon I’ll plant some f-flowers out here for you guys. One that’ll bloom year-round, if we can find one. Rick’ll probably-- no, he’ll definitely make fun of me for it, but… you deserve better than this. I met a Morty who wanted to be a gardener, once, he might know a plant like that…” He trails off. “But, um, that’s kinda getting off-topic.”</p>
<p>The cold is starting to get to Morty, the goosebumps on his arms becoming harder to ignore. Time to wrap it up.</p>
<p>“Anyway, I wonder about you. If, if you had the same problems, or if you were just normal? I mean, I guess I’ll never know. But it makes me feel better to think I’m not alone, so… thanks, Morty.”</p>
<p>He gets up, dusting his jeans off. “Also, sorry for making your French grade worse. Madame Duval must think I’m a real idiot. Not that she’s really wrong, but I think I’m gonna try to get Spanish back next year.”</p>
<p>The sliding door squeaks when Morty re-enters the house.</p>
<p>“What were you doing out there?” Summer asks, eyes glued to <em> Real Housewives of Gear World. </em> </p>
<p>Morty freezes, unsure how to answer. What does one say to that? ‘I was talking to the grave of my dead alternate self whose life I stole?’ </p>
<p>“Uh, just sitting,” is what he comes up with. “It’s peaceful, you know? The fall air and stuff.”</p>
<p>“Whatever,” she says. “Weirdo.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know the half of it,” Morty mutters, walking into the kitchen. He makes himself a mug of hot chocolate and sips it slowly, trying to think. </p>
<p>Rick dashes in a few minutes later. </p>
<p>"Come on, Morty, we gotta go," he says, grabbing a beer for the road.</p>
<p>"Can I finish my--" </p>
<p>"Morty, come with me and I'll synthesize you hot chocolate that'll knock the clogs off of Swiss fucking Miss."</p>
<p>"Fine," Morty sighs. He dumps the rest down the kitchen sink, carrying the empty mug with him as he follows Rick into the garage.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>* * *</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The planet they end up on is swelteringly, miserably hot and humid. Rick doesn’t bother wearing his lab coat or sweater out of the ship, opting to wear an undershirt. Morty can’t blame him. Five minutes in, he’s mentally cursing Rick’s name as they traipse through a claustrophobia-inducing swamp, the stench of decaying plants ripe in his nostrils. The metal thermos Rick gave him to carry is the only cool object in a hundred mile radius, Morty is convinced of it. </p>
<p>Green is everywhere, and the trees aren’t very tall, but their leaves block out a lot of light and seemingly most of the air. It’s a struggle to breathe, especially trying to keep up with Rick. The man’s legs are long, his pace relentless, and Morty almost loses him once, scrambling through the underbrush. He’s glad for the special boots Rick gave him, though, because any ordinary shoe would have been long lost to the gunky, yellow-green mud beneath his feet. </p>
<p>Ahead of him, Rick slows, ducking under a gnarled arch of tree roots, and motions for Morty to join him. Morty does so, stepping into a puddle of lukewarm standing water that goes up past his knees. He grits his teeth, so distracted by the water creeping up his pant leg that he jumps a mile when Rick’s hand claps down on his shoulder. </p>
<p>“See these, Morty? These are crastules,” says Rick, directing his attention to a clump of fat red slime-filled bubbles attached to the underside of a root. “The enzymes they produce can be refined and used to make a painkiller so powerful, you could - your arm could be blown off and you wouldn’t know it. These trees secrete poisonous sap if the bark is harmed, so the crastules use that painkilling agent to numb an area, dissolve it, and steal nutrients from them undetected.” </p>
<p>“Mmm,” Morty says, wishing (not for the first time today) that he was literally anywhere else. </p>
<p>“Problem is,” Rick says, pulling out a pocketknife, “we gotta scrape the crastules off in one clump somehow. And they’re stuck on there pretty good, Morty, it’s - they’re doing their best Jerry impression, here, he might even be jealous. I mean, they are doing absolutely <em> none </em>of the work--”</p>
<p>“Yeah, okay, Rick, I get it. What do you want me to do?” Morty says irritably. He can’t believe he was pouring his heart out to a patch of dirt over this man earlier. The emotional rollercoaster Rick has him on is giving Morty a headache. </p>
<p>Rick cuts him a sharp glance, crosses his arms. “The hell’s your deal, Morty? Why - why’re you acting like such a, such a little shithead today, huh?”</p>
<p>“Gee, I wonder how anyone could be less than thrilled to be here! Wh-what would <em> ever </em> possess me to prefer sitting peacefully in my own home to sweating out half my body weight in a swamp?" Morty says, rolling his eyes. "You're the genius, Rick, you figure it out." </p>
<p>Rick takes his flask out of his back pocket and sips at it, expression flat as he leans against a tree root. "You know, Morty, there's no need to be - <em> urrp </em> - be so difficult. All you're doing with this little tantrum is prolonging your own misery." </p>
<p>"You're the one that started asking questions!" </p>
<p>"Uh, yeah, Morty, curiosity isn't a fucking crime. It's kind of an important part of being a scientist, actually. I think Louis Pasteur would be equally interested to know which, which bacterium it was that gave you little <em> bitch </em>disease--" </p>
<p>"C'mon, Rick, let's just get this over with," Morty pleads. </p>
<p>"Sure, whatever, open the thermos and stand here." Rick tugs at Morty, repositioning him so they're standing opposite one another and directly under the crastules. Rick reaches up with the pocketknife while Morty holds up the open thermos, ready to catch them. It's delicate work, since Rick is trying not to injure the bark. Morty's eyes wander, not finding much to look at except for Rick's front. </p>
<p>"That's it… a-a-almost got it…" Rick stretches to get the last of them, and his shirt rides up, exposing a tantalizing patch of skin. Morty can't help but stare, his grip on the container slipping a bit. Even as gross as the both of them are at the moment, he still wants to put a hand there, explore what's underneath… </p>
<p>"Get ready, Morty," Rick warns, forcing him out of his daydream. Morty yanks his eyes upwards, straightens his posture and catches the clump of crastules as they fall with a wet <em> plop</em>. He's quick to screw the cap on. </p>
<p>"Perfect," says Rick, grinning. He ruffles Morty's hair and digs his portal gun out of his other back pocket. "Let's get off this shitty rock."</p>
<p>The portal spits them out next to the ship; with nothing else to focus on, Morty suddenly realizes what a heavy and uncomfortable experience wet denim is. He kicks off the muddy boots and starts to peel off his jeans. Meanwhile, Rick digs in the ship’s trunk, taking out a few towels that he lays across the front seats. </p>
<p>“Holy fuck,” Rick says, piloting them out of the planet’s atmosphere, “we’ve gotta - I need a shower. Olfactory fatigue can’t set in fast enough-- our combined stink is gonna kill me before we’re out of this solar system.” </p>
<p>They fly for about ten minutes until the lights of an intergalactic truck stop come into view. Rick flings himself out of the ship and makes a beeline for the concessions area, where he lingers for a moment, talking to the clerk. Morty recognizes the easy way Rick leans over the counter, the flirtatious tilt of his head as he speaks; the green-skinned Tirmian behind the desk responds in kind, coyly batting six sets of eyelashes as they hand him a pile of fluffy towels. </p>
<p>It grates on Morty's nerves a little more than usual, standing there in his boxers while Rick butters up some stranger. He forces a neutral expression when Rick saunters back over, brandishing his prize. </p>
<p>"Guess who scored big, baby!" he crows, shoving two towels into Morty's hands. “Tirmians, natural selection ended up putting a lot of emphasis on sight with them. That one couldn’t pick up on, y'know, eau de swamp, I guess. Lucky your grandpa’s so easy on the eyes, huh?" With a parting wink, he takes off towards the showers, whistling a tune that Morty doesn't know. </p>
<p>He's so certain that Morty will follow-- or he really doesn't care. Morty's got half a mind to run off, just to spite him, but he knows it'd be more trouble than it's worth. Also, he'd really like to be clean, so he pushes his annoyance aside and hurries to catch up.</p>
<p>They round a corner, and Morty is relieved to see a long hallway of individual shower stalls. He picks one at random, not paying attention to where Rick goes for once. A timer is embedded into the wall, showing twenty minutes that start ticking away the moment the door closes. More generous than he would’ve expected from a glorified rest area, but that could’ve been part of the deal that Rick flirted his way into. He undresses, hangs his clothes and towels over the door, and inspects the stall. It’s cleaner than he expected, but of course the controls are near incomprehensible at first; after a bit of trial and error, and only a mild chemical burn on his right foot, he’s got the water to a perfect temperature. </p>
<p>He eyes the soap dispenser on the wall warily. Might as well. Nothing alarming happens when he tests it on his arm, thankfully. A brisk washing follows, and Morty feels much improved. God, that swamp was a hellhole. He really doesn’t want to go back if he can help it.</p>
<p>A chime sounds, and a ten minute warning blinks in yellow. Morty lets his eyes close, his head thunking against orange-and-white checkered tile as he palms at his dick, recalling how it felt to stand close to Rick under that tree. Steam rises around him, adding to the memory. In his imagination, though, Rick pushes him back until he’s leaning on leathery bark, kisses him breathless and sinks to his knees, right there in the puddle, to suck him off.</p>
<p>Morty has watched Rick long enough to know how skilled he is with his hands; he’s marveled at how real the skin of his artificial fingers seems when they close around his wrists, linger on the back of his neck. </p>
<p>He wants those hands on his ass, pulling him toward Rick's waiting mouth. Morty quickens his pace, fucks his fist, wonders if the red blinking on the other side of his eyelids is signaling five minutes or one. It doesn’t matter-- there’s a sudden, forceful knocking on the other side of the door, and--</p>
<p>“Morty!”</p>
<p>Adrenaline runs through him, and Rick’s voice only amplifies it, compelling his body to react, go, do something <em> now-- </em> so Morty startles and spills into his hand. He suppresses a groan, relieved that Rick actually knocked for once instead of destroying a wall. </p>
<p>Thirty seconds. He steps under the last of the water, hoping the heat will redden the rest of his skin to match his face, which feels like it’s on fire. </p>
<p>A few moments later, Morty emerges from the shower, confused. He’s grabbed the towels, wrapping one around his waist and hanging the other around his neck, but his t-shirt and jeans are nowhere to be found.</p>
<p>“Rick, w-where are my clothes?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yeah,” Rick says. “I had them incinerated.”</p>
<p>“Rick!”</p>
<p>“What? They were putrid, Morty, I had to bribe the haz-mat team. Practically walked away by themselves. You’ve got a spare set in the trunk anyway, fuckin’ - have some chill, goddamn.”</p>
<p>By the time they get to the ship, all Morty wants is a nap. He doesn't bother with the change of clothes, flopping into his seat with all the grace of a three-car pileup. His eyes are just closing when Rick says "here," and shoves a warm object into his hands. </p>
<p>His mug. Morty had forgotten all about it, but now that he's sitting in the ship with wet hair and the AC still blasting, he accepts it gratefully. The hot chocolate is, as Rick promised, far better than the packet he’d emptied into the microwaved milk in his kitchen earlier that day. There are hints of spices, cinnamon and nutmeg and a subtle smoky flavor that Morty can't identify. It's sweet and rich, leaving him feeling cozy as he huddles under his second towel like it's a blanket. </p>
<p>He glances over at Rick, who's staring at him expectantly. Morty hides his smile behind the mug. </p>
<p>"It's - I really like it, Rick," he says. "Thank you."</p>
<p>Morty knows better than to expect a reply. The skin on his foot is beginning to itch and blister where his shower experiments went wrong, and he rubs it against the back of his leg. He’ll ask about it when they get home; it’s so minor compared to everything else he’s been through that he’s sure Rick can fix it. </p>
<p>Morty drains his cup, then leans over to rest against the window. He relaxes until he’s on the edge of sleep, staticky dreams fizzling in and out of focus. </p>
<p>It’s dark out when they get home. Rick stays in the garage, but waves Morty off with a cream for his foot. Morty applies it and stands on the threshold for a while, watching Rick dismantle some gadget and spread green crystals all over the workbench. </p>
<p>The events of the day don’t truly catch up to Morty until he’s lying on his bed. There’s no way this doesn’t turn unavoidably weird if he doesn’t address it, right? His brain tosses out ideas, ranging from subtle hinting to rip-off-your-pants obvious. None of them seem right, though, so Morty resigns himself to a life of awkward indecision for the time being.</p>
<p>Rick’s advice generally sounds good in theory, but for some reason, Morty doubts “don’t think about it” will work this time.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I noticed while writing this that the acronym for this fic is IFAP, which I think is pretty funny.</p>
<p>Hopefully this chapter is decent. The next one should be out soonish, I just decided I didn't want them to be super uneven. Sorta ruined the whole reason for titling it this way but lmao whatever, I think I've figured out a fix for it.</p>
<p>Consider leaving a kudos/comment if you liked it. Thanks for reading! :)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Feel free to leave feedback/comments/kudos if you liked it.</p><p>Thanks for reading! I hope to have the next chapter out soon.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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